


Mirages

by cyanspark



Series: May the odds be never in your favor [2]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Bucky is sad, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-13
Updated: 2014-06-13
Packaged: 2018-02-04 13:00:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1780018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyanspark/pseuds/cyanspark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years before the Hunger Games, Career tribute-in-training Bucky Barnes finds himself in the middle of a desert, trying to remember how he ended up there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mirages

**Author's Note:**

> This is a prequel to [May the odds be never in your favor](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1751135). It can be read either before or after that story.

Sun.

Light, harsh on his eyelids. Heat, scorching his skin. A dry wind, chafing his face.

Bucky stirs and coughs, spitting out the grit in his mouth. His hands sink into the ground, and he realizes it’s sand—he’s lying on sand. He shades his eyes and blinks, trying to get the blinding whiteness around him to settle into shapes. Scraggly bushes, spiny leafless green columns, rocks, far-off mountains...

He’s in a desert.

_How the hell…?_

Then he remembers—that morning, Strucker came into the training room with a smile on his face.

“Today, you will embark on the first of a new set of training sessions designed to give you a real taste of what the Hunger Games are like.”

He remembers feeling a pinch on his neck. Then nothing. And now...now he’s here.

_A “real taste of the Hunger Games,” huh?_ He wracks his mind, trying to remember anything related to desert survival he’d learned. Stay out of the sun. Conserve water. _Good plan._

Bucky pulls the fabric of his shirt up to cover his neck and mouth. He seems to be alone, and he vaguely wonders where the others are.

He pushes the thought out of his mind as he gets to his feet and starts walking.

*

He needs to find water and shelter. Not necessarily in that order. Preferably water first, except there doesn’t look like there’s any as far as he can see.

He crawls into the nearest clump of desert shrubs he can find and curls up on the ground, keeping his nose and mouth covered. Already his face feels like it’s been halfway burned off by the sun, and while the shade offered by the shrubs is pathetic, at least it’s something.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

The sky finally begins to darken and the wind cools. He gets up and continues walking, keeping his eyes peeled for any birds or animal tracks that might lead him to water, or any rocky formations that might serve as shelter for the night.

No water.

He finds a rock with a tiny overhang that looks like it might provide some meager protection. It’s starting to get cold, so he gives up for the time being and squeezes himself against the rock, hugging his knees to his chest. He closes his eyes.

*

_“Bucky!”_

_Bucky laughs as he feeds Becca with a spoon. “Becca!” he says, mimicking her voice._

_“Bucky!” she gurgles delightedly, clapping her hands as pudding dribbles out from the corner of her mouth._

_“Hey, no—eat your food!”_

_“Be nice to your sister, Bucky,” his mother says as she enters the room, buttoning up her Peacekeeper uniform._

_He pouts. “I_ am _being nice!”_

_Her mouth twitches and she leans down, kissing him on the temple. “I’m going to work. Mrs. Proctor’s going to watch over you two today.”_

_“Aw, Ma, but Mrs. Proctor’s no fun!”_

_“Behave yourself, James Buchanan Barnes,” she says sternly. “And take care of your sister. Think you can do that for me, soldier?”_

_He stands and salutes the way he’s seen her and his father do. “Ma’am, yes ma’am!”_

_She ruffles his hair with a smile. “That’s my boy.”_

*

Bucky wakes in the pre-dawn chill, shivering in the darkness. He squints at the slowly fading gray in the sky and rubs his eyes, looking around. There are rocks on the ground. Rocks...didn’t Natasha once say something about rocks and moisture?

He flips some rocks over and waits, rubbing his arms to try and get his circulation back. Sure enough, water starts to condense on the rock surfaces.

He grabs them and licks them eagerly. It’s not enough, but the light pressure in his head starts to subside, and he feels a lot better.

Time for more walking. He trudges onward, one eye on the rapidly lightening horizon, looking for shelter and more water. As soon as the sun’s up, he’s going to have to stop and wait out the scorching heat.

What is he supposed to do again? he wonders, trying hard to remember. Is he just supposed to survive for some period of time? Or is he supposed to get somewhere? Hell, would it have _killed_ them to at least give him a clue? he grumbles silently to himself. (And a hat and some basic supplies, for God’s sake.)

Still no water in sight. He crawls under another clump of desert bushes next to a rock as the air heats up around him, and slowly waits out the agonizing daylight hours.

Hours.

_Hours._

It suddenly occurs to him—is there a time limit to this exercise? Is he going to fail if he doesn’t make it to an unknown destination in time?

He really, really hopes not.

He almost falls asleep, but then his left hand itches. He’s about to reach over and scratch it—probably just another damned sunburn—when his eyes fall to the scorpion on his hand.

He freezes, eyes on the long stinger.

The scorpion, for whatever godforsaken reason, has apparently decided Bucky’s hand is a comfortable place to rest and remains content not to move. He thinks about shaking it off, but he can’t risk getting stung. Not when he’s already partially dehydrated and far from any kind of help. So he bites down on the scream of frustration that rises to his throat and waits.

For long, long minutes.

And even longer hours.

Finally, the scorpion skitters away. Finally, dusk cools the air again.

_Get up, Barnes. Keep walking._

He keeps going. Keeps looking.

No sign of water.

When the sun has sunk completely below the horizon, he pulls himself between two rocks and prays, again, that he won’t freeze to death.

*

_He doesn’t realize what the purpose of the test is at first. They make him do some physical exercises, and then they make him try to steal an apple from a Peacekeeper._

_When the Peacekeeper spins around and grabs his wrist, he thinks he’s failed. “What d’you think you’re doing, brat?” the Peacekeeper spits. “I’m gonna cut your hand off.”_

_He’s afraid, at first. But anger quickly overrides his fear. The officials have pushed them all morning, refusing to allow them to have lunch, and he’s tired and_ hungry.

_“Go stuff yourself,” he snaps back, pulling his other hand back and punching the Peacekeeper in the face._

_The Peacekeeper stumbles back—more due to surprise than due to pain—and Bucky grabs the apple and runs off, devouring it in a dark corner when he thinks he’s outrun him._

_Only when he returns to the testing area and sees the expression on the testing officials’ faces does it hit him, what he did. His stomach drops to his feet._ I’m so dead, _he thinks. Then—_ Ma and Pa are going to _kill_ me.

_He swallows and waits for the officials to pronounce his doom. But instead, the one in front—a thin man with a long nose—smiles._

_“Congratulations, James Barnes.”_

_“Uh,” he says, dumbly, “you mean I’m not in trouble?”_

_“No,” the man says smoothly. “Indeed, you passed with flying colors.”_

_“Oh,” he says, filled with relief. “Oh. Um, what happens now?”_

_The man’s eyes gleam._

_“You will have the honor of becoming a tribute who will represent District Two in the Hunger Games.”_

*

He’s starting to feel worse.

When he gets up at dawn, he’s stumbling, feeling a bit dizzy. His tongue is swollen; his mouth is dry. _Water,_ he thinks to himself, _I need water._

Except there is still no water. The landscape looks just as barren as it had the last two days, and—he isn’t just walking in circles, is he?

_Where are all the goddamn animals?_

The skin is peeling off his nose and hands. He has no luck during his dawn trek, nor during his evening march. At night, when he can go no further, he collapses in a thicket of shrubs and tries not to dissolve into a helpless wreck.

*

_“But I don’t_ want _to go,” he protests, for the twentieth time._

_His father straightens the collar of his shirt. “It’s a great honor, Bucky. You should be proud.”_

_Bucky sniffs. “But I—I want to stay with you and Ma and Becca. I don’t want to leave.”_

_His mother crouches down beside him. “We’ll always be there with you in spirit,” she says softly. “When you’re lonely, just...look outside your window, and imagine us there with you.”_

_“You can do it,” his father adds. “You’re strong, son.”_

_They hug him, though he doesn’t miss the glint of tears in their eyes._

_“Say bye to Bucky, Becca,” his mother prompts._

_“Bye-bye, Bucky,” Becca says, sadly._

_He climbs onto the truck waiting for him, with the little suitcase packed with his few possessions. The truck starts to drive. He watches his family disappear into the distance, blinking away the tears that well up in his eyes._

*

He’s going to die.

His head hurts horribly, and he can barely put one foot in front of another. His mouth feels as dry as the sand under his feet. He should...he should look for shade and rest, but he trips over his own feet and falls hard on the ground. His body feels so heavy. He’s too weak to get up.

The sun rakes across his skin with boiling claws. Everything is swimming, fuzzy around him.

He’s going to die.

And he’s tired, so, so tired. Maybe...maybe he should just close his eyes…

“Bucky.”

He blinks against the harsh glare. He recognizes that voice, recognizes the faces in front of him, but how…

“Ma?” His voice cracks. “Pa?”

“You have to get up, son,” his father says. “You have to keep going.”

“I can’t,” he whispers. He wants to cry, but even his tears have dried up.

“You _can,_ ” his mother tells him. “You’re our brave boy.”

If he still had tears, he would have cried harder then, because he’s not. Because no matter how hard they tried to beat it out of him, he still clung to his memories of life before the Red Room. Because some nights, he lies curled up on his bed and he doesn’t want the glory of competing in the Hunger Games anymore. All he wants is to come _home._

“I miss you,” he half-croaks, half-sobs. “Please...let me come home.”

“You can’t.”

His parents are gone, and someone else is standing in front of him now.

“Becca?” he breathes.

She looks the way he imagined she’d look at ten years old—wavy brown hair, freckles, a prim dress for school.

“You can’t come home,” she says, her expression unmoving. “This is who you are now. A tribute for District Two. And you have to keep going.”

His fingers curl in the hot sand. “I don’t want to...I don’t want it,” he mumbles around his swollen tongue. He reaches out for her, hand trembling. “I just...just want…”

“You have to, Bucky.” She turns her back on him and starts to walk away.

“No!” he cries, so weakly his voice barely escapes from him. “Don’t—don’t leave me! Come back! _Please!_ ”

She disappears.

Sobbing, he pushes himself up with his palms and starts crawling forward under the boiling rays of the sun.

_Have to...keep going…_

_Don’t want to…_

_Have to…_

_Gonna...die…_

_I’m scared…_

…

…

...Is the ground...sloping downward underneath his hands?

He starts to slide, everything tilting and spinning around him. When he comes to a stop, the ground is…

The ground underneath his fingers is _damp._

Gasping harshly with relief, he starts digging with his fingers, ignoring the pain stabbing the back of his head. It doesn’t take long until he’s dug a small hole and water slowly starts to seep into it.

He cups it with his hands and drinks greedily. It’s full of dirt and grit, but at that moment he couldn’t care less. He keeps drinking, and drinking, until the dryness is gone from his throat and his head doesn’t hurt as much, and then...and then he collapses on the ground.

*

He wakes up as the sun is tiredly sliding back down toward the horizon. He drinks some more from his little hole before he staggers to his feet and starts walking, following the sunken riverbed.

Three days later, the Peacekeepers find him. They pluck him from the desert and put him in the back of their truck. Natasha is there, but she doesn’t speak to him. He doesn’t speak to her, either.

“Congratulations,” Strucker says smoothly to them. “You have both proven yourself worthy of being tributes. We will continue to search for the others, but until then, relax. You’ve earned it.”

Bucky stares out of the truck at the bleak, barren desert. The pale yellow sand, blinding under the sun, shimmering with mirages, sears itself into the back of his eyelids.

He can still see it many nights later, when he closes his eyes, just before he drifts off to sleep.


End file.
